


Lost Requiem

by TheUmbraphage



Category: Red Embrace, Red Embrace: Hollywood
Genre: 1990s, Character Study, Depression, Drug trafficking, False Criminal Charges, Hollywood, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Police Brutality, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, New York City, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Vampires, very loosely inspired by The Vampire Chronicles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-16
Updated: 2018-11-29
Packaged: 2019-08-03 00:02:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16315208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheUmbraphage/pseuds/TheUmbraphage
Summary: A man from New York seeks a new life after a terrible mistake that locked him in eight years of imprisonment, only for him to be greeted again by the gates of Hell.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I guess I can claim first fic in this fandom over here? I played the demo for RE:H last week and, being a sucker for Anne Rice-styled vampires, I fell in love. Also have no clue what pairings to incorporate or who to romance once the game comes out, but Heath and Markus are equally great while I can only see a bromance with Randall. I really shouldn't be starting another fic, but I couldn't help it. At least the next chapters for Icarus and Glory's Greatest <> are in progress?

_Outside of Las Vegas, Nevada, February 20th, 2010_

 

The cuffs and chains chaffed and burned against his skin, ashen in the dim light of his confinement. If he squinted past his messy, curly hair that fell in his eyes, he could almost see the red welts beginning to form on his dirt-covered wrists.

 

He cursed aloud, voice echoing against the tall, circular concrete walls, and stopped struggling against his bindings, letting out a hiss at the burning sensation. _Silver_.

 

He was already feeling the faint irritation spreading through his body, from his impending fate to become ashes, a buzz that was always just painful enough to drag his attention from the stale, barely cool air from the deathscape above.

 

Light slowly filtered in through the opening at the top of his confinement. He looked up, seeing the blue sky brightening as the shadows that barely shrouded him shrank with each ticking second. He wondered how long it would take for this to end.

 

Yellow-white blinded his vision in a burst of light and a thousand red hot needles sank into his flesh.


	2. Chapter 1

_New York City, New York, August 2nd, 1995_

 

Pain exploded like a spilt pot of hot chowder against his cheek. He stumbled back, barely catching himself against the table where other inmates had long abandoned since the fight broke out.

 

A chant. “Oh, fuck! Fight, fight, fight!”

 

Another fist swung out, tattooed with gentle black strokes forming lilies, and he ducked before it could connect with his face again. With a grunt, he threw all of his weight forward and latched onto the taller man’s waist.

 

The other man swayed from the sudden force. Success?

 

He found himself winded with the sudden loss of altitude as he was slammed into the hard, cold floor with a massive block of muscle on top of him.

 

A disappointed voice yelled into his ear, “Dammit, you weak-ass lawyer boy! I woulda thought you get better at this shit after eight years!”

 

He snapped, “Maybe I woulda if I got a degree in sumo wrestling like your dumbass self, Brandt.”

 

The weight lifted from his back, and a fresh breath of air entered his lungs. The man sat up, reaching a hand up to test the swelling that rose on his cheek. He let out a hiss.

 

“Yo, ‘zekiel, sorry ‘bout that bruise,” the same gruff voice apologized. A large hand offered itself for him to take. As he took the hand, the crowd of people dispersed as everyone returned to their lunches.

 

“Thanks. And it’s not much of a problem.”

 

Brandt was a tall, buff man with a shaved head at least five inches taller than Ezekiel’s six feet. A terrifying man with a terrifying stature and a terrifying gaze, he was the most feared inmate at the Lincoln Correctional Facility. Like Ezekiel, he wasn’t in prison for the right reasons.

 

In fact, most of them weren’t in prison for the right reasons.

 

If Ezekiel could legally take a look at every inmate’s profiles, he was sure they’d all have the same background. A poor kid of a minority, born and raised in the ghetto part of town. Could be the Bronx, like him, or other areas in lower-town Manhattan, or immigrated from an even poorer town outside the States ridden with war, drugs, and grime. A family of a single parent and a couple kids; sometimes both parents were in the picture, but rarely could they climb above the vice of poverty because of the poor pay and the cost of surviving.

 

Like him, they were caught in the wrong place at the wrong time—that, or they were forced into the life of crime just to feed their families.

 

 _Like Karael_.

 

Brandt’s boisterous voice interrupted his thoughts, “So, how’s it feelin’, bein’ the nasty dealer finally gettin’ out today?”

 

A chuckle escaped his lips. “Eight years late, but I can’t complain; coulda been a full twenty-five. It’s just about damn time.”

 

Ezekiel was grateful, though the taste of ashes still lingered on his tongue at the thought of it; just eight months ago, his case was appealed to the judge again, and it was by a stroke of luck that the first judge who gave him a sentencing had been transferred to another court so he had a chance, however slim, to crawl out of this hellhole. After weeks of looking over the court transcriptions from his case file, the new judge was sympathetic enough to see that an all-white jury plus the original judge’s spoken words all led to an unfavorable outcome: as Ezekiel figured, bias outweighed the evidence supporting his case in the end.

 

A simple, formal apology was made and the judge gave the prison’s executive director the order for his release; of course, the paperwork was an “issue” and his release was postponed for eight months. Seven years turned to eight, and both Ezekiel’s and his family’s patience was wearing thin until finally: the long-awaited release date.

 

Still, an apology wasn’t much compensation for the stolen eight years, nor was his quiet release later in the day in which he silently bid the others farewell and only hoped that they would stumble upon luck as he did.

 

* * *

 

The dusty silver sedan waited for him the second he stepped into broad daylight in fresh clothes: a pair of jeans, a white cotton shirt, and a cheap, black zipped hoodie. He didn’t know what happened to the leather motorcycle jacket he wore when he was arrested, but as much as his heart ached for it, it was a remnant of the past he had to leave behind.

 

A young woman no more than twenty-five with her once curly hair braided in cornrows long ago now straightened and shoulder-length stood leaning against the car hood in a pinstriped button-up shirt with navy trousers, the passenger door left open as an older woman in her late forties sat in the seat in a familiar sweater and pants. Upon hearing the barbed wire fence buzz as the prison guard opened it for Ezekiel, both women looked up at him with wide, hopeful eyes, the same viridescent as his own.

 

The younger of the two bounded up to him with wide strides—Ezekiel didn’t remember her being this tall—and embraced him tightly with a tearful eyes. She whispered, “Welcome home, Ezekiel.”

 

He laughed, reaching up a hand to ruffle her hair. “Easy there, Duma, we ain’t home quite just yet. You’re not so short anymore—ouch!”

 

Duma punched him in the arm none-too-lightly, but grabbed him by the hand to pull him to the sedan. The older woman, Hasielle, grinned at the two as she stood, latching onto the car to balance herself so she didn’t sway, and waited for Ezekiel to approach before she pulled him in for a hug.

 

Ezekiel smiled warmly as he wrapped his arms around the shorter woman. He greeted softly, “Hey, Ma.”

 

Hasielle pulled back for just to moment to reach up and pat Ezekiel’s cheek, where the bruise had already formed from earlier. Eyebrows knitted together, she said, “They haven’t been treatin’ you nicely here, huh? You need to eat more too, you’ve gotten so skinny!”

 

“Well, I’m always lookin’ forward to your chicken and rice; I’ll even help cook.”

 

Hasielle smirked, “Well, I’m supposin’ you need practice after awhile. Let’s make it a competition tonight. You in, Duma?”

 

His sister paled at the mention of cooking. “You want me to burn down the house?”

 

“Chemistry, cookin’, all the same thing, aren’t they?” Ezekiel challenged, eyebrow raised.

 

“It’s chemical engineering, Ezekiel. And I’m not doing anything with cooking for the program I’m in, anyways. I’d burn the whole city down on accident!”

 

“Well, you better find someone who can cook for you, Duma,” Ezekiel chuckled. Duma’s cheeks reddened.

 

“Shut up, you.”

 

Their mother’s eyebrows rose, “My, my! Has my daughter found someone?”

 

“No, Ma! Not yet! The next person I’m gettin’ married to is science herself.”

 

Amidst the warm laughter, a hollow ache still pervaded a part in his chest. Once, they were a family of five, then four when he turned seven many years ago. And again, one was missing.

 

They all stepped into the car; Duma was driving since Ezekiel needed to reapply for a driver’s license and Hasielle’s condition had worsened over the years: after years of fighting through her anemia to juggle three jobs to support the three of her children, she finally took a break from working once Duma was able to help support them both after getting through college at MIT on a scholarship.

 

Once the chuckles died down and Duma turned down the road toward the city graveyard, Hasielle glanced in the side mirror at Ezekiel, where he sat in the back, and commented, “Hon, your hair’s so short.”

 

“Is it?” Ezekiel reached up to rub at his head, feeling the prickliness of his cropped curly hair between his fingers. He supposed it was a lot shorter compared to how he kept it years ago, but he had gotten used to his hair being this length.

 

“I miss your old hair, but I’ve been seein’ them old-style movies, like Victorian-era and older. Just a thought, but maybe you should try growin’ out your hair longer. I remember you tellin’ me awhile ago in a letter that you’re workin’ on a novel as a new start to your life, so maybe gettin’ a new start in style might help too.”

 

_A new start, huh? A new life… Sounds nice._

 

“Maybe I will.”

 

The car pulled into a parking space at the mausoleum some miles away. In spite of the sun that beat down on them, the place still seemed awfully dim and quiet—as expected, Ezekiel supposed, yet it was unsettling not unlike the prison at night.

 

As Duma pulled out the wheelchair from the trunk of the car for Hasielle, Hasielle spoke, “Ezekiel, Duma and I are goin’ to see Pops in the yard. Why don’t you go on ahead to the mausoleum first and we’ll see you soon?”

 

He was speechless for a moment, before given his mother a quiet nod. Ezekiel left the two and walked in long, slow strides toward the large, Grecian-style mausoleum, steps ginger and uncertain. The place was eerily quiet when he entered, the door shutting silently behind him, though the sunlight filtering through the skylights and brightening the marble floors created some imitation of a welcoming aura. To his left was a small alcove with a sign hanging above it, Flowers.

 

Ezekiel shuffled into the small shop, where a short old woman waved at him from behind the counter. He smiled, a bit stiff, and waved back before he turned to observe the array of flowers sprawled through the expanse of the shop.

 

He had no idea what to buy for his brother. In fact, he didn’t even know if his brother ever liked flowers—they were never that close especially during their last few years spent together before Ezekiel ended up behind bars.

 

In the end, Ezekiel settled for white lilies and baby’s breath. White for purity, but also white for a blank sheet, for possibilities. Paying for the flowers, he left the shop and ducked into the nearest corridoer while keeping an eye out for the signs designating alphabetical order.

 

Q-T. Thomas. Timmison. Torvald.

 

Travis.

 

A framed photo of a young man with a smiling face, a mustache forming on his upper lip, stared back with similar verdant, yet faintly honey-colored eyes at Ezekiel. Ezekiel let out a soft breath as he placed the flowers in the vase attached by iron-wrought wire to the wall beside the box of ashes set into the marble wall, engraved in a delicate font.

 

_Karael Travis, December 22nd, 1969-February 17th, 1991_

_Loving son and brother who always did his best_

 

A whisper, deafening in the echoing silence, “Long time, no see, you poor bastard. Just what did you get yourself into when I couldn’t be there to catch your fall?”


	3. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dammit, I wish I would draw fanart but the pressure sensitivy on my tablet is still broken so all my digital art looks like shit unless I make a 5000x5000 canvas and draw tapered lines myself, which takes freaking forever. So I'm stuck with traditional art (whenever I get time). I accidentally made another OC in this chapter because I needed a shop owner, and oops, now he is suspicious AF and will appear in the future.

_ New York City, New York, August 28th, 1996 _

 

The gentle rain chorused against the rooftop of the worn three-story building, red brick dim beneath the shrouded skies. Only a yellow light lit the small establishment from within, bright yet still quiet as pedestrians carrying umbrellas walked past in their busy ways.

 

_ Splash _ .

 

Rain soaked his brown leather jacket as his motorcycle quieted to a dull hum when he turned from the street into the alleyway beside the building. Parked outside the white metal side door, he pulled his keys from the ignition and pocketed them with a flourish.

 

Ezekiel removed his helmet, letting his hair fall into place where he had tied it back early in the morning, and popped open the back container behind the seat. Reaching in, he pulled out a black sheet and laid it over his motorcycle, shielding it from the rain that cascaded from above.

 

The break room was dark when he unlocked and entered through the white door. Reaching beside the doorway, he felt for the switch and flipped it on, showering the room in an incandescent light. A tiny thing it was, with a fridge, cramped counter space, a sink, and a circular rustic table made of ash wood. He slipped out of his leather jacket and hung it on the wooden coat hanger, where a navy peacoat was already hanging.

 

_ Old Memories _ was a tiny bookstore with a tiny clientele, but the business owner had managed to get by the past ten years—how, Ezekiel wasn’t sure, especially during their first meeting almost a year ago.

 

Bjorn was a quiet man with a strange intensity behind his amber eyes, with a strange habit of speaking in riddles, so Ezekiel was more than skeptical accepting the job as a store associate. Of course, it was the only job that responded to his application within three weeks of his job search, so he didn’t have much of a choice.

 

Aside from Bjorn’s oddities and his rare appearances outside the third and second floors where black blinds were pulled shut most days, Ezekiel found himself at home amongst Bjorn’s collection of books. Bookshelves upon bookshelves dominated the first and second floors, and customers would find cozy reading areas with a sofa and coffee table throughout the store. The third floor, Ezekiel had visited only once for the interview, lacked the warmth of the lower floors: it was a cluttered one bedroom apartment, beige walls covered in hanging paintings ranging from abstract to realism, all of which had been done by Bjorn’s hand.

 

Ezekiel often wondered how the man had managed to juggle his art with his business, but when he voiced this to Bjorn, the pale, frail man merely had smiled and said, “Passion is only a vice when you allow it.”

 

Ezekiel didn’t know if Bjorn meant his art or his store.

 

There were no customers when Ezekiel tied his navy apron around his neck and waist, branded in white with  _ Old Memories _ in a delicate cursive, and stepped out onto the floor. He supposed it wasn’t abnormal, as it was the usual dead hours on a Monday afternoon. He sat down at the chair behind the front desk near the back of the store, feeling it creak beneath him as he leaned backwards.

 

On the wall beside him was a bulletin board pinned with newspaper and a worn, yellowed  _ Now Hiring _ sign in bold black print. Toward the bottom was pinned an old newpaper clipping, not for the customers, for for Ezekiel.

 

_ 22-year-old black man killed in a warehouse fire on 18th Street during a drug bust _

 

Since hearing of Karael’s death five years ago, a piercing cold hand had gripped his insides and permeated his heart and gut with a sense of icy dread and guilt. His death was attributed to a near drug overdose which incapacitated him before the fire, caused by a scuffle between police and the gang members on the scene, and no one had come back for him. Like most articles, journalists pinned it on Karael voluntarily overdosing; according to what Duma and Hasielle had heard from the police, they had suspected foul play—not that they had much evidence.

 

When Karael’s body was recovered, it was mostly ashes. No DNA evidence could be found, but according to witness testimony, Karael was the only one left behind.

 

It was very much an open-shut case, and Ezekiel couldn’t argue with that as a lawyer. While he personally found the evidence unsatisfactory, it wouldn’t be a case he could win even if he went to pass the bar (if he could in spite of his criminal record).

 

Yet, something kept nagging at from from the deep recesses of his mind, a whisper of “but maybe.” Ezekiel often found himself wistful with thoughts about Karael using this as a cover to escape to someplace far away, where he wouldn’t be a puppet for the city gang, but an ache squashed those thoughts down every time. Through the years knowing his brother, Ezekiel doubted Karael was smart enough to pull that off.

 

That damn weed killed brain cells after all, and Ezekiel had once found a stash in 15-year-old Karael’s backpack.

 

The sky beyond the windows darkened once more, and rain pounded more ferociously upon the city, a cacophony of falling bullets to Ezekiel’s ears.

 

“Afternoon, Ezekiel.”

 

The smooth voice, a Latin yet not quite-so lilt to it, spoke near Ezekiel’s ears, and he flinched, sending the tilting chair falling backwards. He flung his arms out, sending the chair falling back forward, and landed itself evenly on four legs with a loud thud. He cursed, “Holy shit, Bjorn!”

 

He would’ve expected the man to be leaning over him with that mysterious, teasing smile, but instead Bjorn was standing a good five feet away on the other side of the desk, with lips only ticked up in a faint smile and immaculate platinum hair braided from his delicate, yet almost gaunt face.

 

Ezekiel squinted in disbelief at the store owner. _How?_

 

Bjorn drew his attention away from him to the window, gaze penetrating with unknown thoughts. “A storm draws near, yet unfortunately I don’t believe an eye could be found this time around.”

 

“...Yeah, well, we don’t get hurricanes of’en.”

 

Bjorn gave Ezekiel a sidelong glance and hummed. “How goes your search for publishers?”

 

He let out a sigh and slumped back in his chair. He replied, “Not well at all. Not a single company in th’ area is interested in my novel.”

 

A hum of disapproval. “Certainly not a satisfactory outcome. It’s truly unfortunate that the youth of this generation lack an appreciation for the darker, grittier aspects of the human experience. Our souls are like the petals of lotuses blooming from the dark recesses of the past; it is a shame that we choose to ignore our roots.”

 

Ezekiel raised an eyebrow, nodding, “Uh-huh…”

 

“Here,” a pale hand reached into Bjorn’s trouser pocket and pulled out a business card, sliding it across the desk to Ezekiel, “A friend of mine would be interested in publishing a novel like yours. They’re based in Las Vegas, but they’re still transitioning offices from their old one in Hollywood. It may be a bit out of the way from where you are intending to go, bit I figure you might want to give it a try.”

 

Ezekiel’s eyes widened and he leaned forward in his seat to look at the business card, linen-textured and inked in blood red.

 

_ Crescent Publishers _

_ Akiho Yorihara, Head Editor _

_ XXX-XXX-3294 _

_ 1234 Jefferson Rd, Hollywood, CA 90038 _

 

Bjorn added, “I hope you don’t mind, but I shared with them the general basis of your novel. They were immediately intrigued, so your chances of getting published with this company would be quite high, I’d say.”

 

Ezekiel stared up at Bjorn, finding himself at a loss for words. He stuttered, “Well, uh, thank you, but you didn’t have to do this. I’ll give ‘em a call later today.”

 

“Truly, it was my pleasure to help. I wish you luck.”

 

Before Ezekiel could speak another word, the doorbell jingled with the entrance of a customer. He smiled and welcomed them to the store, but when he looked back, Bjorn had vanished.

* * *

 

 

_ New York City, New York, September 24th, 1996  _

 

The church was quiet, hushed whispers among family and friends only accompanying the open space.

 

Ezekiel, donned in black, sat at the front, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees as he stared blankly ahead with red-rimmed eyes. His body felt numb as Duma let out a sniffle and patted his shoulder, murmuring, “I’m gonna see everyone out, I’ll be back.”

 

The funeral for Hasielle was a quiet affair, though Ezekiel couldn’t say the same about her death.

 

Through his childhood, he had seen Hasielle battle her anemia with a ferocity unmatched by even a professional wrestler. A strong woman, she had been, but even time had begun to wear her down to where Duma, and now him too, had to support her like she had with them. Just one day weeks ago, she collapsed on a grocery trip. A hospital visit in an ambulance and two days later, she whispered to Duma and Ezekiel on the white bed, “It’s ‘bout time this lady sleeps. Don’t worry ‘bout me, promise?”

 

Since then, Ezekiel couldn’t stop worrying. First, their father. Then Karael. Their mother. Since their other relatives rarely interacted with them, it was now only him and Duma. Now, more than ever, his sister needed him and he needed his sister, not just to pay the funeral and hospital bills but also to try to restabilize their lives.

 

He had always dreamt of a new life, a new future where he could restart after his time in prison. That was precisely why he powered through and started his novel one night in the library with a journal and pencil three years before his release, and later finished and polished a manuscript just four months ago.

 

Now, he supposed it’s not such a bad idea to stay in New York with his job at the bookstore just so Duma could finish her degree smoothly. In the end, as it would, his dream was too grand, too far out of reach for his fingers.

 

He gulped down the dull ache in his chest, fingers tightening on his cheap black trousers. A cold hand rested itself on his, gentle yet tight like an anchor. A shiver ran down his spine at the icy touch, like the sharp wind coming through the door in the dead of winter, yet it was… Comforting.

 

“I’m sorry for your loss,” a voice murmured from beside him. Ezekiel smirked bitterly.

 

“That has to the first straight thing I’ve heard from your mouth, Bjorn.”

 

A chuckle. “What is straight may not be so, Ezekiel. But truly, it seems that a typhoon would drown a lotus at every given chance.”

 

“Well, I suppose life would throw shit in your face; that, or death pulls the rug out from beneath you.”

 

“Perhaps not so crudely put, but yes,” Bjorn hummed, “The abyss swallows you and you are bound and blinded for eternity.”

 

“How dark.”

 

Bjorn paused before clicking his tongue and shaking his head. “My, Ezekiel, one to jump to conclusions. Yes, it is dark, until you remove the cloth the abyss has tied around your eyes yourself, and you might just find that the abyss isn’t an abyss at all, but rather an ocean of light.”

 

Ezekiel let out a breath, “If this is supposed to be some motivational speech—”

 

“It’s not, but rather the truth I have discovered through the ages,” Bjorn interrupted, voice firm and sharp. His grip on Ezekiel’s hand tightened. “It is up to you to decide what you do with it.”

 

Ezekiel blinked at Bjorn. Rarely had the other man ever spoken with such a tone: for the whole year they’ve known each other, Bjorn always had this wistful gaze and light, almost carefree tone. After a pregnant pause, he glanced down at their hands and sighed, “I think it’s best for me to stay here and help Duma for awhile.”

 

The look in Bjorn’s eyes was unreadable as he remained silent after Ezekiel’s admission. He finally nodded, removing his hand from Ezekiel’s and reaching out to tuck a curl in Ezekiel’s hair behind his ear, fingers lingering a second too long as they dropped down and brushed against the side of Ezekiel’s neck where his pulsepoint was. “If that is what you wish; you were given a chance at a new life and you have many paths to follow. I have to commend your loyalty.”

 

“You don’t have any family?”

 

Bjorn was silent for a moment as his eyes unfocused. He shut his eyes and let out a sigh before smiling faintly at Bjorn, “Once, long ago. We haven’t been in contact.”

 

“Maybe you should take a vacation one week and see them.”

 

“...Perhaps. I’ll see you next week, Ezekiel. I hope your plan goes well,” Bjorn stood and nodded to Ezekiel in farewell.

* * *

 

 

_ Hollywood, California, October 10th, 1996 _

 

The flight had been a long one, landing at 11 pm in the bright, bustling city. It was a tiring night, and Ezekiel was supposed to meet up with the faceless Akiho Yorihara at noon the next day, yet a whole hour after his face met the pillow in the hotel room, he could not sleep.

 

A race through the streets in a used motorcycle he bought from a local man he saw an advertisement for in the news clippings two weeks ago, and two bars later, he found himself being pushed with unexpected strength against a wall with newspapers and magazine covers pasted to it, covered in multicolor graffiti. A spicy drink on his breath, he found himself tipping forward with lidded eyes, close to the pale, shorter man dressed in black leather and buckles.

 

Well, goths weren’t exactly his type, but something was just so enthralling about those burgundy eyes that peered up at him from thick black lashes.

 

A hiss of frustration. He was shoved more roughly against the wall so he was straightened.

 

“Dammit, that wasn’t part of the deal. How much of a lightweight are you?”

 

Ezekiel mumbled, “Y’make my heart lightweight w’them nice thighs.”

 

Burgundy eyes glared at him, speechless. A deep sigh and cold lips pressed against his neck, tongue dragging against his skin until they hovered over his pulse.

 

Ezekiel let out a soft hum, hand reaching up to tangle against short black hair.

 

A sharp pain. Flames coursing through his veins, but he couldn’t scream. He could only let out a gasp, eyes widening as the smog cleared from his mind.  _ Fuck, what is this? _

 

The flames dulled to a molten gold that rippled down his spine, leaving behind tingles in its wake. Warmth pooled all over, like the swath of an ancient linen brushing against skin, like the embrace of a lover after climax.

 

No, it was better. Like enlightenment, like the feel of power surging through like a tide.

 

A lotus bursting through murky waters.

 

The touch against his neck was familiar. Flashes of platinum thread, soft amber glimmering in the church’s light.

 

He could distantly remember watching a movie Duma had dragged him to a month after his release—something with 18th century vampires.  _ Could it be…? _

 

Ezekiel was slumped against the wall as his eyes slid shut, his heart slowing to a stop. A wrist with a warm, metallic wetness pressed to his lips,and there was a whispered command into his ear, “ _ Drink _ .”

 

And he did.


	4. Chapter 3

_Hollywood, California, October 11th, 1996_

 

Ezekiel woke in a daze in the alleyway with a cough. Squinting at his watch with bleary eyes, he read, _2:28 AM._

 

He must have had a bit too much to drink; he had always been a lightweight, and he honestly wished at the moment that he could throttle his 12 AM self for being an idiot once again. Yet…

 

A pang echoed through his chest. He supposed he never really had the time to truly grieve over Karael, much less Hasielle.

 

With a grunt of effort, he stood, using the brick wall as support. He grimaced as a wave of nausea nearly toppled him over. He held his head and squeezed his eyes shut, muttering, “Fuck.”

 

It passed as soon as it came. He straightened and began walking, but something was off.

 

Even though it was a big city still alive at night, Ezekiel never remembered it to be this bright. Everything seemed more vivid, neon signs more intense than before, and everything looked sharper than what he was used to. He rubbed at his eyes, wondering at just what the hell he drank, and continued on his way back to the hotel—he had a meeting to get to tomorrow, after all. Maybe catching up on sleep after chugging some water to dilute the effects of the alcohol would so his some good.

 

A irritated itch came from the nape of his neck. Just his luck to be bitten by a mosquito.

 

Maybe a stop by the drug store for some itch medication first wasn’t a bad idea. He continued down the street; he was bound to find one around.

 

The itch turned into a burn just a minute later. He frowned, reaching up to rub at his neck. A rash? What could he have touched in the middle of Hollywood?

 

A chain of hot iron was pressed up to his neck, tightening with the passing second. Ezekiel stumbled against the nearest brick wall from the pain, letting out a sharp gasp as he clawed at his throat. Black spots entered his vision as he let himself slide to his knees, one hand bracing himself against the wall. What was going on?

 

A pale hand flashed into his vision, carrying a white handkerchief. It quickly gripped his necklace in between the cloth and yanked with such force, he could hear the clink of the chain snapping. His necklace was thrown onto the street, the silver of the cross pendant gleaming at him as it caught the light of the street lamps before landing silently on the concrete.

 

The burning vice around his neck had faded to a minor heat not unlike that of a sunburn. He reached up to rub at the uncomfortable sensation, but the same hand that had torn his necklace from him latched around his wrist in an iron grip, keeping him from touching his neck. Ezekiel looked up at the perpetrator—a man with long curly black hair in sunglasses—who knelt at his side, and spoke as if he hadn’t drunken water in days, “Who…”

 

“Hush, don’t touch that. I’m surprised you’ve lasted this long wearing silver,” the man tutted with a Southern drawl. “That nasty rash will heal on its own, thankfully it doesn’t look bad enough to scar that pretty skin of yours.”

 

Ezekiel stared in puzzlement at the man before shaking his head. “Look, um, thanks, but I haven’t ever had a silver allergy before. Just—who are you?”

 

The man stared into his eyes with a piercing gaze, sending shudders down Ezekiel’s spine even though he couldn’t make out the man’s eyes behind the shades. The man hummed, “You smell new. In fact,”

 

Ezekiel froze when the man leaned close, far too close for his liking, and took a whiff. _Just what creepy fuck did I run into this time?_

 

“You are like me. Also from House Golgotha,” the man leaned away, letting go of Ezekiel’s wrist. He stood and offered a hand to help him up, which Ezekiel took. “My name is Markus. And you must be Ezekiel.”

 

Ezekiel stared at Markus with narrowed eyes. He took a cautious step back, glancing around for the nearest exits as his hand hovered near his pocket—crap, he didn’t think to buy a knife after he left the airport for the hotel. He responded, forcing his voice even, “And how do you know my name?”

 

The strange man replied, “We, Golgotha, have an ability to see a multitude of things. Your name is just one of them.”

 

Ezekiel slowly nodded, preparing to bolt, “Uh-huh… Sir, I’m not sure how much you’ve had to smoke, and I have no idea what this ‘Golgotha’ stuff is all about, but I’d rather not have any part of it.”

 

“I’m afraid you are already a part of this.”

 

“What the fuck do you mean?!”

 

A smile. “You’re a vampire, brother. Welcome to the valley of death.”

 

Ezekiel’s mouth hung open before he let out a harsh laugh. “Haha, almost got me. Vampires ain’t real, dude.”

 

Markus tilted his head. Ezekiel could feel amusement radiate from behind those glasses. “You’d be surprised at what lies beneath the world you have seen for the past several years. If we weren’t real, I believe I must speak to the man above at once. Tell me, Ezekiel, what do you see?”

 

Ezekiel’s hands tightened into a fist. He could feel panic surge from within, but the accompanying heart race wasn’t there. What was wrong with him?

 

In fact… Did he ever breathe before he noticed the sharp burn of his necklace against his skin?

 

He murmured, “No, it can’t be.”

 

Markus gazed at him, amusement dimming. “I have been stuck in this rotting corpse for far, far too many years. It is one long-lasting joke, I can tell you.”

 

Ezekiel pinched the bridge of his nose, gritting his teeth. He snapped,  “Why me? Do you vampires just go turning random people on the streets? I didn’t ask for this!”

 

Markus raised a curious eyebrow at Ezekiel. He felt cold to the stomach. The strange man spoke, “Random? Of course not. In fact, it is a serious process… However, from what I can tell, you weren’t notified of anything?”

 

“No!” Ezekiel shouted. He paused, taking a deep breath, no matter how unnatural it felt to his lungs, to calm his nerves, and continued, “Markus, I think there’s been a mistake. I’m a felon who just managed to find a new opportunity as an author, so I sure as hell didn’t ask for this. Just what am I gonna do now?”

 

He felt sick to his stomach. His brother. His mother. And now, him too, if he couldn’t find a way to reverse this. Oh, god, Duma; she would be the last one left. What will she do without him?

 

Markus spoke, expression serious as he listened to Ezekiel, “I believe that is an issue that should be taken to Saorise; I’m afraid my knowledge is limited since I wasn’t the one to turn you. Come with me, brother.”

 

Ezekiel let himself be gripped by the arm and taken to the limousine parked on the street—had that been there before? He ignored the absurdity of the situation as he sat down on the leather seat beside the window, as far away from Markus as possible. His hand lingered on the door handle, prepared to jump out of the vehicle at any given moment even as it jerked into motion.

 

“So, Markus, let’s start from the beginning…”

 

* * *

 

Ezekiel questioned every single one of his life decisions.

 

For one, agreeing to join Saorise’s coven (granted, he didn’t have much of a choice; what was he supposed to do? Break out of the hotel and hijack a plane back to New York?). Another, coming to Hollywood.

 

When he came looking for a new life, he didn’t mean this.

 

Especially not being some new underdog trying to complete a political mission.

 

So, to say that his patience was wearing thin being stopped in front of the abandoned warehouse, where the supposed Golgotha-Mavvar meeting would take place, was an understatement.

 

“No ID, you can’t come in.”

 

Ezekiel sized the other man up: the guard was a man of around 6’5”—a good few inches taller than him—and if the Mavvar were as truly warrior-like as Saorise made them out to be when he had done some probing the night before, he doubted he would have much of a chance unless he could pull a one-shot knock out. Even with the years in prison, he didn’t want to take a chance.

 

And so, he stared, blank and soulless, into the guard’s eyes and said, “He is coming. Beware, for thou may witness destruction upon thy eyes. Beware, for a storm roars on the horizon. Beware—”

 

“Fuck, you’re one of those Golgotha freaks! Shit, is Randal coming? There ain’t no way I’m gonna stick around and run into that guy!”

 

The guard fled on scene, and Ezekiel blinked at his retreating form. He didn’t think that would work, of all things. With a shrug, he stepped into the building and ducked into the crowd of vampires, dagger in tow within the folds of his navy hoodie.

 

Two vampires, a man in a black suit and fedora and another golden-haired man in a short sleeve shirt and ripped jeans, stood in the center, deep in discussion.

 

When he approached, steps soft and slow, he could make out the man in the fedora speaking, “So, Randal, what do you think of the conditions? Shall we proceed?”

 

The blond was thoughtful, but his mouth was down turned. “That’s a tempting offer, but we should fine tune some more things—”

 

He was interrupted by a loud crashing sound that echoed throughout the warehouse. The two, among the whole crowd of vampires, turned to stare at Ezekiel, who stood beside the mountain of fallen boxes and scattered silverware.

 

Ezekiel merely swept his gaze across the sea of puzzled eyes before meeting Randal’s irritated ones. Forcing his expression into one of neutrality, he pulled out the dagger for it to glint in the harsh white light, and spoke, “I believe I have somethin’ of yours—Randal, was it?” He jerked his head to the man in the fedora, “Michael Jackson over there told me to hold on to it.”

 

Randal stared at Ezekiel, stupefied, before sucking in a breath. Closing his eyes, he hissed, “What the _fuck_. They stole it from me?”

 

The man in the fedora spoke, voice rising several octaves, “Who are you? Randal, I have no idea—”

 

“Out.”

 

“I’m sorry?”

 

Randal opened his eyes to glare at the man, “I don’t need to fucking repeat myself. Get out, you motherfucker! Everyone leave. Meeting’s cancelled.”

 

There was panic. The crowd scurried out, postures lowered as if they were afraid to incur more of Randal’s wrath.

 

Ezekiel sure as hell didn’t want to stay. He quietly set the dagger down on one of the boxes and began walking toward one of the back exits, stepping into the shadows to evade any attention.

 

Just as most of the vampires had disappeared, He was just a mere foot from the door. He silently reached out to push it open, but froze in his tracks when a large, brawny hand clasped his shoulder.

 

“Just where the fuck are you going?”

 

Ezekiel stiffened at Randal’s voice, but he forced his voice even to reply, “Just tryna catch a bus back home. How can I help you, Randal?”

 

He turned to smile politely at Randal, but the man was not amused. Randal sighed, “Queen Bitch sent you, didn’t she?”

 

He shrugged, raising his hands in a surrender. “You said it, not me. I’m gonna take it Queen Bitch means Saorise, right?”

 

“Of course. There are plenty bitches around, but there’s only one queen of them in the area,” he replied. A low growl came from his throat, “Fucking Saorise, figures. She must’ve known that I’d see through this shit, so just what the hell is she up to? Damn Iscari and their mind games…”

 

“Well, can’t help you much there. As weird as us Golgotha are supposed to be, we can’t read minds… ‘specially not folk like Saorise."

 

Randal chuckled, anger fading from his face. At least now Ezekiel didn’t have to worry about getting knifed. “That’s true. Say, I know just about every vampire in L.A., but I haven’t seen your face around. Your accent sounds like you’re from New York; don’t tell me Saorise is going so far as to hire underdogs from across the States…”

 

“I’m from the Bronx, but I’m actually new here. Fresh, but not by choice,” Ezekiel hummed, “Less than 3 hours since I touched down at L.A.X., and I done got jumped by a vampire.”

 

“Damn, I thought there are rules against that now. I guess even with Saorise around, there isn’t policing being done. What’s your name anyways?”

 

He hesitated for a moment before replying, “Ezekiel Travis. Though, I suppose there’s no need for a last name now that I’m here.”

 

“Well, Ezekiel, you’ll just be making a new name for yourself here. Way to make a fucking entrance back there.”

 

He smirked, “Thanks.”

 

Randal shook his head with a smile, “At this point, I should be tearing you up for what you pulled, but man… I guess you didn’t have much of a choice.” He frowned, continuing, “Tch, it’s just like Queen Bitch to throw a newbie to the sharks. There isn’t a whole lot I can do for you, especially with her on high alert. Taking you in right now is too much of a risk.”

 

Ezekiel shrugged, “Don’t worry about it, man. Can’t be worse than prison.”

 

A raised eyebrow. “Prison? I wouldn’t have taken you for a felon.”

 

“Legally and on record for the past nine-ish years, I am. Or, was, since my case got appealed, but even then, a lot of people still called me a felon. I guess I’m dead now, so that doesn’t matter anymore.”

 

“You’d have to tell me the full story sometime. I’m surprised that you’re a Golgotha; if anything, you have a spunk rivaling a Mavvar.”

 

“Maybe,” Ezekiel huffed a laugh, “Y’know, since my cover’s about blown, I’m gonna come out with it. What do you think of a truce with the Iscari?”

 

Randal snorted, “Yeah, yeah, very funny.”

 

When Ezekiel said nothing, any amusement disappeared from his face.

 

“Are you fucking serious?”

 

“Hey, when I say I can’t read minds, I’m serious. So, I can’t help you with figuring out why she wants your alliance specifically; all she told me was that you lead the Mavvar.”

 

Randal let out a sigh, “That has to be the dumbest joke I’ve heard all month, and I just read an ad telling me that my dick isn’t big enough earlier today. Sure, these guys look up to me, but I am not their leader. That’s the point, the Mavvar doesn’t have a leader. I keep telling her, but she just doesn’t get it. Hard for a dolled-up fascist to get, I guess.”

 

“I wouldn’t say fascist, but she definitely has this Soviet kind of air,” Ezekiel pointed out.

 

His face relaxed from its irritated expression, lips upturned, “Well, I wouldn’t be surprised if she was best friends with Stalin back in the day.” A pause. His eyebrows furrowed, “I still can’t believe that bitch still thinks I would be willing to work under her. Damn Iscari. They say they’re all about beauty and peace, but they’re all just snakes.”

 

He replied, a bit dry, “That’s just all politicians. Sure, there are some decent ones, but have you seen how policy making goes? It’s terrible.”

 

“...You’re not wrong,” Randal smirked, fangs glinting in the light. “I’m guessing you’ve had your fair share of bad politicians, from what I hear about your case. But trust me when I say don’t trust any Iscari. They will fuck you over, even if you’re in the same House.”

 

“So, I guess that settles it: Iscari is a shark tank, Golgotha is a bunch of truth-seeing folk probably on crack, and what I’ve heard of the Mavvar is that you’re… Well, belligerent and impulsive, but that’s probably with bias. You mentioned that I have a spunk like the Mavvar? What do you mean by that? What exactly are you guys about?”

 

Randal hummed, thoughtful, “There isn’t much to say about us; I guess what you’ve heard isn’t entirely wrong. Basically, we hate rules, and we hate rulers even more. Vampires should be able to do whatever the hell they want except for following basic morals: no killing innocent humans, no revealing ourselves to the public because that would just create a whole witch hunt. Aside from that, we live our unlives as we please; usually a bit on the wilder side.”

 

Ezekiel stared at Randal, feeling a sense of familiarity with those words. It was exactly like what someone had said to him years ago, something he had fought viciously over, something that had broken a relationship beyond repair. He looked away, eyes saddened as he remembered the past, “I definitely understand not followin’ rules; I did have that streak when I was a lot younger, but I couldn’t afford t’ live like that when I had to help take care of siblings. As for everythin’ else about the Mavvar, you sound like my brother.”

 

”Oh? Sounds like quite a guy if he fits the Mavvar to the T.”

 

Ezekiel laughed, “Oh, he was. Always got himself into sticky shit when we were young, and he always got himself into trouble at school. He had so many ideas about how to make life better for everyone, but a lot of ‘em were unorthodox so we fought a lot, especially since I had to make sure the apartment didn’t get burned down.”

 

Randal smiled, “You must miss him, huh? You know, when we say that we aren’t supposed to reveal ourselves, we don’t mean to completely cut off ties. I’m sure you’d be able to keep in contact with your family for awhile longer. Maybe take your brother over to meet some of us.”

 

Ezekiel chuckled, “You sure it’s not because you need more Mavvar?” The laughter died from his eyes, “Too bad though, my brother’s been dead for a few years now. He got caught up in drugs and gang violence, and I wasn’t there to protect him. As for the rest of my family… Well, I suspect Saorise wouldn’t appreciate me giving my sister a call to visit.”

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

He shook his head, “The past is the past, I’m just more concerned about the now and the future.”

 

There was a moment of silence before Randal replied, “Well, as tough as it is for you right now, my House is open for you—as long as you don’t stay long. You know what, you can even come to the beach house for some volleyball with my guys and me; we’re the winning team so losing won’t be a worry.”

 

“Thanks, Randal. I might take you up on your offer some day.”

 

The man smiled and clapped a hand on Ezekiel’s shoulder, “Alright, Ezekiel, it’s been fun but I need to go and check up on my guys so they aren’t running down Gols in the street or anything too crazy. I expect we’ll be seeing more of each other soon.”

 

Ezekiel and Randal bid their farewells, but as pleasant as it was to not have been beaten up by the end of the night, a sense of dread grew in his gut for what was on the horizon.


	5. Chapter 4

_ Hollywood, California, December 12th, 1996 _

 

As terrifying and exciting Ezekiel would have expected being a vampire would be, the next two months after his first mission as an underdog were uneventful.

 

L.A. was a big, bustling city, but its coven? Other than tensions between Houses, there was hardly anything to be done. Though, he supposed it was less calm behind the scenes where Saorise worked, but then again, he wasn’t one for politics. As much as he wanted to pass the bar many years ago, becoming a politician was never in his line of sight—despite Hasielle’s less-than-subtle attempts to push him into the path of political science long ago.

 

Other than playing informant and spy under Saorise, in which he was bored out of his mind waiting for a new mission every couple weeks, he found himself becoming stir-crazy within the first month. While he didn’t mind the free time to be able to get to know the vampires around L.A., he sorely missed having a motorcycle; Saorise had been less than impressed when he mentioned it offhanded after his last mission.

 

It was December 12th, and snow? Not a single speck. While he had been expecting the lack of cold weather since it was Southern California, he hated it. Absolutely hated it.

 

If he hadn’t been dragged into the world of vampires against his will, perhaps he’d be preparing to go back to NYC for Christmas and keep Duma out of the kitchen before she could burn the apartment down. Perhaps they’d have a nice Christmas dinner, with friends over to fill the void Karael and Hasielle had left behind.

 

Maybe he’d even invite Bjorn over so the man wouldn’t be alone in his home above the bookstore. Ezekiel had no memory of ever seeing Bjorn outside the bookstore except for the occasional sightseeing during strolls at night, which he would used to join with Bjorn.

 

_ Just what has he been up to now? _

 

Ezekiel was shaken out of his stupor by a concerned voice, “Ezekiel, are you feeling alright? You’ve been zoning out lately.”

 

Snapping back into reality, Ezekiel remembered that he was in the middle of wiping down the bar top at Saturnalia, a dimly lit place with hardly any customers at the current hour before opening. Heath had placed a hand on Ezekiel’s shoulder, touch gentle through the white shirt he wore.

 

Ezekiel shook his head and smiled wistfully as he looked down to meet Heath’s eyes, “I’m alright, just been havin’ a lot of thoughts to myself.”

 

Heath raised an eyebrow, “A penny for your thoughts?”

 

A pause. Ezekiel let out a breath, solemn. “With the holidays comin’ close, I can’t help but think about Duma and a couple other friends back home.”

 

“...They must miss you a lot.”

 

“I bet Duma would beat me around my head if we ever see each other again,” he chuckled. “I’m not so sure about the others missin’ me much; even though a whole year passed by since my release, I hardly had time to reconnect with any of my friends from college and law school. Though, I did get a couple new ones from work. They’re weird, but in a comforting way.”

 

“You worked at a bookstore before coming here, right?”

 

“Yep. It’s called Old Memories. It’s a literal hole in the wall: there were only 3 people who worked there. Me, my boss, and a college kid that worked part time—I was somewhat of a mentor to her since she is in pre-law and she looked up to me for whatever reason; I never finished law school anyways, not since the incident.

 

“And my boss… He was a weird, but nice guy. A bit like Markus, I’d say. Probably not quite so morbid, but almost there. Has an artistic streak, but a painter; he’d go on these strolls through the city and Central Park at night just for inspiration.”

 

“He sounds like an interesting person,” Heath commented.

 

“Other than his streak with speaking in riddles, I think you would get along with him. He appreciated beauty in many things as well,” Ezekiel smiled softly. He added, “Speakin’ of which, you mentioned when I first came to the hotel that you were everything to Hollywood… You’re an artist, I can tell that, but how do you go around finding beauty?”

 

A smirk twitched at the other vampire’s lips. “You can say I do a bit of everything. I’d tell you more, but truly, there have been too many exploits of mine to describe them all right here.”

 

“I’d love to hear about them. Though, I’ve seen that piano sitting in the corner every night I’ve been here, and I haven’t seen it played once. Do you play, Heath?”

 

“I guess you can say I know a few songs…”

 

The night passed in a flash with the trickle and occasional surge of customers; a night of contentment, it was. Ezekiel hadn’t seen Heath leave the bar except to tend to the customers that came to this dark crevice in the city, but the bar felt more lively and relaxed with the sound of piano instead of atmospheric music blaring from the speakers as Heath spilt his heart at the keys and Ezekiel worked in the background, taking up Heath’s usual job while mixing drinks.

 

An hour before dawn, he bid Heath off at  _ Hollywood Heights Hotel _ after they closed down the bar with smiles and shared laughs. The lit, ornate corridor was quiet when Ezekiel stepped off the elevator on the 9th floor and pulled out his keys from within his leather jacket with a small cling to open the door of room 914.

 

The room was dark when he pushed the door open, and this a flip of the switch, the room was washed in warm lighting. Letting out a breath of relief to rest before the sun rose, he stepped in and prepared to change out of his clothes, only to hear the crinkle of paper beneath his work shoes. Ezekiel paused, lifting his foot to reveal a folded note on the carpet.

 

Bending down to pick it up, he unfolded it to reveal the delicate scrawl he was familiar with from the past few notes left in his room from the past couple months. A mission?

 

_ Brother– _

_ Be prepared tonight; you’ll be meeting some unsavory figures from the lowest of the Purgatory with Saorise and I. Come to Blood and Roses first at 9 pm. Saorise is a bit too occupied to give you directions directly. _

_ xoxo Markus _

 

Ezekiel’s gaze darkened at the note. Just who the hell did Markus think he was, signing the note with hugs and kisses? Even if he were that old to think it was “hip” while not understanding a thing like some folk older than Ezekiel do, Ezekiel just  _ knew _ it was a joke.

 

What a guy.

 

Ezekiel scoffed and crumpled the note, though he still found himself giving the note a lingering stare—how was Markus’s handwriting that good? With a flick of his wrist, he threw it in the trash, but burned its contents into his memory; whatever was going on tonight had to be important.

 

* * *

Ezekiel wasn’t one for sex shops; he was never that kind of guy. For one, he hardly had time for relationships in youth between school and a part-time job at a coffee shop, and another, he never truly cared for the likes of the other inmates when he was serving his time—not that he would’ve been able to go to a sex shop anyways.

 

The sign outside _Blood and Roses_ had been flipped to _Closed_ , but the shop was lit from within. He peered inside, dutily avoiding looking at the ride array of rubber lining the walls, for Markus’s presence, but he found none. Letting out a sigh, he tried the door, and to his surprise, it was unlocked.

 

The bells attached to the door rung when he entered, but still there was no sign of Markus. Ezekiel walked in with hesitation in his step, keeping as far away from the merchandise as possible. “Hello? Markus, you here?”

 

Something caught his foot and he stumbled, grabbing on to the nearest rack full of Playboy magazines to balance himself, the metal creaking from the force. A tall object, which had been leaning against the rack, fell forward just as Ezekiel rebalanced himself and the rack.

 

Cursing loudly, Ezekiel caught the object, and to his horror, it was a blonde sexdoll clad in cheap lingerie and fake pink chiffon that let out an robotic, automated gasp in his arms.

 

The door in the back of the store near the register had opened just when Ezekiel tripped over himself trying to navigate the store, and Ezekiel looked up in shock to meet amused silver eyes.

 

Wait.

 

Was Markus...without his sunglasses?

 

As he gawked at the man, mouth moving like a fish out of water as he struggled to find words to explain what happened, Markus chuckled in that deep drawl of his, “My, my, not only does it seem that an angel like you, Ezekiel, had fallen from heaven, but you’ve been makin’ others fall too.”

 

Any stupor caused by Markus’s missing shades and the sexdoll in his arms ended right there as Ezekiel groaned at Markus’s words and rolled his eyes. Reorienting the doll where it originally was standing, he grimaced at Markus, avoiding his gaze, “That… Was so terrible. Can you not make puns like that again?”

 

Snickering, Markus replied, “I’m afraid I cannot make promises like that for you.”

 

Drily, Ezekiel said, “Well, I suppose I’m in Hell anyways. Puns aren’t the worst way to go. So, what’s up?”

“Well, if this is Hell already, I’m afraid we’re about to descend a few levels more,” a sharp grin was sent his way, sending an unnerving shudder down his spine. Just as quickly as the amusement had come at Ezekiel’s unfortunate encounter with the merchandise, a somber expression had replaced the smile. “You’ve read that I mentioned some unsavory figures in that note, correct?”

 

“If they’re gonna be even more unsavory than Saorise herself, I’m tempted to hand in a resignation letter.”

 

Markus tutted, “That is a terrible attitude to have at this time. Though, it is a matter of perspective at that point.

 

“You see, beyond the coven in Los Angeles, there are covens in every city—dependin’ on how big the city is. Every now and then, covens will meet to solve conflicts and keep each other updated.”

 

“And I take it each coven is also led by a head vampire?”

 

“Yes, though everyone is a bit different. Workin’ with the other leaders will be somethin’ different from workin’ with Saorise. This meeting tonight isn’t goin’ to be a massive conference; just L.A., San Fran, and Las Vegas.”

 

Ezekiel frowned. “Las Vegas? Isn’t that a bit far just for a meeting?”

 

“That, I can’t tell you,” Markus hummed, “You’d find some issues are more serious than others.”

 

Sighing, he replied, “I don’t have a good feelin’ about this, Markus.”

 

“If I were honest, I don’t see rainbows and unicorns comin’ from this either,” he agreed. “However, we’ll see.”

 

Markus’s piercing gaze wandered over Ezekiel’s shoulder toward the front of the store. Ezekiel glanced over his shoulder to see a black car coming to a stop in front of the store.

 

“Ah, it appears that our hearse has arrived.”

 

When Ezekiel looked back to Markus, the man was already back in his shades and jacket, heading to the exit. Ezekiel followed after at his heel.

 

Saorise was already waiting for them in the car, silver eyes peering coldly at them from behind her glasses. Ezekiel wondered, yet again, if she truly needed them or if it was for aesthetic.

 

“Almost on time, though I’d prefer to have left from this store earlier,” she spoke, pushing her glasses up her nose.

 

Markus smiled, “Ah, if you had told me that, then I’d have left later so we may arrive fashionably late.”

 

Saorise let out a sigh, choosing not to reply, and looked to Ezekiel. “I trust Markus has briefed you on what is to happen?”

 

“Er, mostly,” he shuffled under her sharp gaze, “But I’m not entirely sure why I’m supposed to be there.”

 

“Just for security purposes. I would like you to pay special attention to the vampires from San Francisco and Las Vegas for any unexpected behaviors; I trust your skills enough to make accurate assessments by talking to the others. I recommend avoiding direct contact with Bishop and Isabela, however.”

 

“Are they…?”

 

“The leaders of the San Francisco and the Las Vegas covens, respectively. Notoriously there has been some, I suppose you can call it, bad blood between our covens for the past century. Furthermore, depending on your mental fortitude, either may be able to influence you in ways I’d prefer they not.”

 

Ezekiel broke out in cold sweat.  _ Yeesh, how powerful are these vampires? _ Gulping, he replied, “Alright, I will try to avoid them the best I can.”

 

The rest of the ride was silent, though it was far from a peaceful quiet for Ezekiel. Tense, he stared out the window at the city lights glaring down upon them as they entered an unfamiliar area of the city.

 

As expected, traffic was terrible in the streets, even though they had yet to touch the freeway. If only he still had a motorcycle; while it was true that as a vampire, he could run faster and longer than he did as a human, there was no mistake that vehicles made things more convenient. True, buses ran at convenient hours here, but the stench of sweat seemed thrice as horrible as it did when he was human.

 

For the remainder of the ride, he found himself mourning his motorcycle.

 

The car pulled into parking lot, slowing to a stop in front of a building full of flashing lights and moving spotlights shining into the clouds above. Even outside, Ezekiel could feel the bass coming from inside the building.

 

...A nightclub?

 

Saorise turned her nose up in disgust as the chauffeur opened the car door for them, stepping out with a click of her heels on the concrete. She commented, “The reason why this location was chosen is too far beyond my grasp of understanding; sometimes I wonder at the others’ sanity.”

 

Ezekiel couldn’t help but agree as he and Markus stepped out after her. Wouldn’t such a serious meeting be held at another place?

 

“Well, well, well! Isn’t it Saorise and her crew? It’s been awhile!” a boisterous voice came from ahead of them. A tall brunette man in a sharp black suit approached them with a bright grin, fangs almost menacing in the lights.

 

Saorise grimaced, but politely greeted the man, “Ah, Raymond. It’s a… Pleasure to see you again.”

 

A chuckle. “Still so uptight, I see. It’s been what, two years? I’m glad that you guys arranged your meeting to be at my club. Bishop and some of his crew are upstairs in the private room right now, but I have yet to see Isabela.”

 

“As expected; Isabela hardly seems to take diplomacy seriously enough to arrive on time.”

 

“Now, now, Saorise, don’t be so sour. Isabela is just busy, after all,” Raymond replied with that fixed smile of his.

 

“As we all are,” Saorise hummed. For whatever reason, Ezekiel could easily see the tension between the two, however he had the sneaking suspicion it was because of Raymond’s nonchalance.

 

Raymond’s blue eyes wandered to Markus and Ezekiel, curious. “Oh, you brought two this time? It’s nice seeing you again, Markus. How is your shop?”

 

“As well as it can be,” Markus’s eyes gleamed from behind his shades. He did not speak any more.

 

“And… What’s this? A newbie?” Raymond raised an eyebrow at Ezekiel.

 

He shifted a bit under Raymond’s scrutinizing gaze. Was it that obvious?

 

Saorise sighed, directing Raymond’s attention back to her, “Yes, yes, now can you direct us to the room and do your job as a negotiator?”

 

Raymond laughed, “Of course, of course. Right this way.”

 

He gesture his hand to the main doorway, leading them inside the pulsing nightclub. When Ezekiel stepped in, the music was even louder than from outside, ringing in his eardrums as the bass reverberated through his very bones.

 

They started up the staircase, away from the sea of bodies saying to the beat, and unexpectedly, Raymond started falling behind so he was in step with Ezekiel.

 

“Say, how long has it been since you turned? I’m sorry, I’ve been so busy running the club lately that I haven’t been paying attention to newcomers to L.A.”

 

He replied, voice a bit stiff, “About two months so, so you’re not missin’ out too much.”

 

“Good, good. It’s great to see a new Golgotha in town.”

 

Ezekiel turned a puzzled gaze to Raymond. “You are a Golgotha?”

 

Raymond smiled, “Hm, I guess those skills still need some time to settle, huh? Yes, I am. You must’ve been wondering if I am Iscari.”

 

He gave a hesitant nod.

 

“Truth be told, I was quite the diplomat as a human. Even though I was bitten by a Golgotha, it’s not something I can let go of easily. Like you and your fire, I suppose. You seem like the lawyer type…”

 

“I was in law school for a bit, but I never got the chance to take the bar,” Ezekiel replied. They had made it to the upper level, where he could see some figures waiting outside an open doorway to a private room.

 

“That’s too bad,” Raymond hummed, slowing his step. Sending a bright smile to the group waiting, “Hello, hello! Sorry to keep you waiting, Bishop, but I got caught up in distracting Saorise for a few minutes.”

 

The tall man, donned in a dark grey suit with a vest, smiled in return, however just one look at the man sent chills down Ezekiel’s spine. “I can’t blame you, Raymond. Saorise, I see you’re looking beautiful as always.”

 

Saorise pursed her lips in a thin smile, “And I see that you’re charming as always, Bishop.”

 

If the leaders of the L.A. and San Fran covens were already this tense, Ezekiel dreaded the moment when the mysterious Isabela would step in.

 

Footsteps, slow and deliberate, came from behind them. Bishop and Saorise turned to face the newcomer, faces neutral.

 

A voice, familiar to Ezekiel’s ears yet not one he had heard in months, spoke softly, “Isn’t this fascinating… I’d recognize your voice from anywhere, Ezekiel Travis. But, the question is, how did you end up here?”

 

Ezekiel turned, mouth open in shock as his eyes found puzzled, yet amazed eyes the shade of red peonies against skin the color of paper. The newcomer had the same voice as the one he had heard many times over his phonecalls with the same number on that lost business card he had been given many months ago.

 

Akiho Yorihara?


	6. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hover mouse over footnotes in main text to find definitions.

Saorise broke the silence, voice grave, “Mx.1 Yorihara, you know Ezekiel?”

 

Akiho replied, head tilted as they examined Ezekiel, “Yes, in fact, we’ve been in correspondence for a few months as a publisher and a client until he dropped off the face of the earth. I’ve gotten quite a few worrisome calls from his sister regarding his disappearance in October.”

 

Bishop only watched the scene with interest, though if Ezekiel was paying attention, he might have seen the man’s lip curl slightly in distaste.

 

Ezekiel could barely register Markus’s chuckle from behind him. “Oh-ho, this is interesting… It seems that you’ve already had your share of run-ins with the Devil long before your trip to Hell.”

 

He finally spoke, rubbing at his temples in an effort to relax the coming migraine, “Akiho– I– Okay. So, you’re a vampire.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“And I never knew about it.”

 

“As per our code, I absolutely cannot disclose my state. So, yes.”

 

He stared blankly at Akiho for a long moment, before hissing to himself, “What the fuck.”

 

Bishop cut in, voice a light hum, “What is interesting, however, is that the local Las Vegas coven ambassador knows your newest member quite well… Don’t tell me that you have been corresponding with Isabela, Saorise?”

 

Both Saorise and Akiho snorted at the thought. Akiho sneered at Bishop, “Us, corresponding with the disorganized likes of your Californian vampires? Don’t make me laugh.”

 

Bishop and Saorise both glared at Akiho, but before more sharp words could be exchanged, Raymond physically stepped between the trio, waving his hands, “Ladies, ladies, let’s keep any catfights outside of the club. Akiho, where’s Isabela?”

 

Akiho’s shoulders relaxed as they let out a breath, eyes somber now. “She will not be coming. Instead, I’m here to speak in her stead.”

 

Saorise narrowed her eyes the ever so slightest, “Tch, as I expected. What new… Responsibilities did she have to abandon the meeting for?”

 

Akiho narrowed their eyes back at Saorise, “Unlike the covens in California, if you have forgotten, the Las Vegas coven is still overseeing the covens in surrounding cities. Unfortunately, the tensions between the Houses nearly caused an all-out war in the streets, so Isabela is needed there.”

 

“It seems that you, too, have the same issues with ‘disorganization,’” Bishop commented. Akiho turned to him, about to respond, but Ezekiel had enough of the change of subjects.

 

“Okay, time-out, you guys. First off, you guys need t’ hire contract lawyers instead of throwing insults around like the girls in  _ Heathers. _ ” Ignoring the offended expressions on the trio’s faces, he continued, sending a sharp glance to Akiho, “Second of all, don’t think I didn’t catch you dodging me. Why exactly were you so surprised at me being here?”

 

Akiho paused, as if they didn’t want to give Ezekiel an answer. Finally, they replied, voice tight, “Not quite so surprised as I am indignant… After all, I wasn’t expecting the L.A. coven to steal a potential vampire from us.”

 

“To steal?” Saorise almost hissed, offended. “I’m afraid you misunderstand us; Ezekiel’s turning was purely unintentional. A prank, at most, by a rogue.”

 

A potential vampire? Ezekiel frowned at Akiho, confused. “Sorry, I don’t think I follow… What do you mean by a potential vampire?”

 

Akiho sighed, pinching the bridge of their nose. “...Isabela and I saw that you had potential. Well, more accurately, our informant saw potential. We weren’t planning on turning you immediately; we hoped to slowly introduce you into the vampire world after I help you publish your novel, and it eventually would have been up to you to join the coven or not.”

 

His eyes widened.  _ No way… Could it be? _ “Are you telling me… That Bjorn was in on your plot?”

 

Akiho was speechless. It was enough of an answer.

 

He tore his gaze away, not catching the sharp looks Saorise and Bishop had given Akiho, hands tightening into fists as he gritted his teeth. He couldn’t believe it. Aside from the burning rage that threatened to burst from his chest, there was an ache was if a hole had been torn through his heart. It was as if he had been betrayed. No, he had been betrayed. Those teasing smiles, the friendly touches, and late night conversations—it was a lie. A stupid lie he had been played like a kazoo into.

 

He muttered, “Fucking hell. The nerve of that guy…”

 

Akiho spoke, eyes wide as they reached a hand out to clasp his shoulder, “Ezekiel…”

 

Ezekiel shook his head, stepping away out of arms reach. Voice low, he said, “If you don’t mind, I need some time to myself. I won’t be gone long, Saorise.”

 

Not waiting for the redhead’s reply, he spun on his heel and heading back downstairs. Behind him, he could hear the conversation continue.

 

“Bjorn… I dear hope this isn’t the same Bjorn we know of.”

 

“Tch, you do realize that Bjorn is a common name, right, Bishop? Or have you been having too much fun with your humans to notice?”

 

Shaking his head, Ezekiel continued down until he reached fresh air outside the club. Whatever it was, however strange their conversation was from what he caught, he didn’t want to hear it. Not yet, at least.

 

He found himself wandering to the side of the building, where a concrete staircase leading downwards toward sand was attached to the building—there was a beach?

 

He supposed he had been so absorbed in his nerves that he didn’t notice the scent of the ocean air when he got out of the car. He found himself wandering down the staircase into the beach, ignoring the NO TRESPASSING sign posted, and once he was a good distance from the building so the waves drowned the distant music, he sat down on the sand.

 

Letting out a breath, Ezekiel slumped and let himself fall backwards so he could stare up at the night sky above.

 

Saorise must be angry with him up and leaving so suddenly. However, he couldn’t bring himself to care, as his thoughts wandered again

 

Was his friendship with Bjorn, awkward as it was, a lie? Well, he supposed it could be worse; the coven could have just wanted him as a meal instead of turning him. If Akiho was a vampire and they and Bjorn had been conspiring to induct him into the Las Vegas coven, then that would mean Bjorn was a vampire as well…

 

Well, it would explain Bjorn choosing not the appear in daylight most of the time, though still skepticism made its way to the forefront of Ezekiel’s mind. Vampirism sure didn’t explain the few times he did see Bjorn out during the day, even though those days in particular were overcast. Nor the fact that he had been working under Bjorn that long, and he had not once seen anything that could point toward Bjorn as a blood drinker.

 

Hell, he had seen Bjorn drink coffee and wine once.

 

Ezekiel groaned, rubbing at his temples. He could feel a heachache coming on just from trying to remember anything and everything about Bjorn that could’ve pointed at him as a vampire, and how he could’ve hidden himself so effectively. Though, he was still reeling from the new information that a) he was supposed to be a Las Vegas vampire and not an L.A. one, and b) that he had basically been betrayed.

 

Question was, why put so much effort into him? If Bjorn was part of the Las Vegas coven, why was he in New York City and not Sin City? If Bjorn was an ambassador like Akiho, it would make no sense at all since the crazy man was basically a hermit.

 

“My, Ezekiel, I’d be expectin’ steam to be coming from your ears from what happened back there.”

 

He jerked in shock, not hearing Markus’s approach. He sighed, rubbing at his face before looking at the man towering over him. “Not so much steam as it is my brain breaking itself just figuring out what the hell is going on.”

 

“I suppose your brain would be doin’ some more breaking in due time,” Markus hummed, sitting down on the sand beside Ezekiel. “My condolences.”

 

“For what?”

 

“For what you’ve had to go through. I suspect my warning to you came too late.”

 

Ezekiel raised an eyebrow, “To not trust anyone? Well, can’t do anythin’ about that.” He sighed once again, pushing himself up so he was sitting. “I hadn’t even met you yet. Bjorn, he was one of the few anchors that really helped me out of my rut—other than giving me a job to support myself and my family, I mean. So, it was hard to not trust him, I guess.”

 

Markus gave Ezekiel a somber look for a moment, silent as he seemed to ponder. He pointed out, “I would not be so quick to make any assumptions from anything our local Las Vegas coven member says. As the old saying goes, not everything is as it meets the eye.”

 

He paused, letting Markus’s words sink in. Squinting his eyes, he leaned toward Markus in suspicion, “You know something I don’t.”

 

Markus’s lips curled upwards. “Ah, knowledge is such a difficult object to define…”

 

“What is it?”

 

Silver eyes peered at him in amusement from behind the shades, but the vampire made no move of showing an intention to answer his question.

 

Ezekiel let out a breath, annoyed. “Fine. But it’s about Bjorn, isn’t it?”

 

“Perhaps if you waited longer for the insanity to sink in more, you’d see the same.”

 

“What a way just to tell me to get better at the visionary thing,” he rolled his eyes. Markus merely smirked at him, but he couldn’t bring himself to focus on the banter. Frowning, Ezekiel wondered, “I heard Bishop mentioning something about Bjorn, that he hoped it isn’t the same Bjorn ‘we all know.’ What exactly did he mean?”

 

“Ah, so you were paying attention,” Markus hummed. “Indeed, Bjorn is a name that most vampires of older generations side-eye at.”

 

“Why’s that?”

 

“I’m afraid I don’t have enough wrinkles to tell the whole story other than what I’ve heard.”

 

Ezekiel deadpanned at Markus, looking especially hard at his face. Not a single wrinkle was on Markus’s face, no. If anything, Markus must have been younger than him by a few years when he got turned, however long ago that was.

 

“But, to satisfy your curiosity, I suppose I can share. It’s considered more of a household folktale now, you see; something that younger generation vampires would have a hard time believing.”

 

“Depending on how old the tale is, I’ll take it with a grain of salt or a bowl. I want to hear it.”

 

Markus chuckled before replying, “Say, Ezekiel, do you know much about the origin of vampires?”

 

“What do you think,” Ezekiel drawled.

 

“They say vampires came from demons. Some of the fallen, after spending years in Purgatory, decided to wander the Earth. Because they could not feast on Hell’s energy, blood was the next alternative,” Markus hummed, eyes distant. “Humans learned how to defend themselves and kill them, so the fallen had to adapt. And so, the Turning begun; and vampires like the ones sitting on this beach were born. Soon, vampires had a culture, a society of their own. The original fallen faded from history, but they were rumored to have continued wandering the Earth for thousands of year, anonymous rogues that were only distant ancestors to vampires and nothing more.

 

“Some were power hungry. Some were ambitious and craved the old times where vampires were the most powerful. One day, ages ago, a vampire formed a pact with one of these hungry fallen and became an abomination, a crude, yet powerful imitation of what the fallen once were. Manic from power, the abomination became frenzied and killed every last one of the fallen that had wandered the Earth. They were too powerful, and they had to be sealed away permanently, lest they pose a threat to vampires and humans alike.”

 

Ezekiel stared at Markus, commenting, “That sounds like something straight from those angelology and demonology Bibles.”

 

“I suppose, though you’d be hard pressed to find it in any publication,” Markus smiled.

 

“So, somehow Bjorn is related to this? Was the abomination named Bjorn?”

 

“It is simply a piece of lore with many details lost to time. However,” the smile faded, “I believe the abomination from the earlier tales was known by Biornus.”

 

Ezekiel’s eyebrows furrowed. As interesting as the tale was, it sounded like a piece of wild fiction from mythology; nothing that should be applicable now. Though, if the tale was true, then he had to wonder at what it means for the world if such a powerful creature existed.

 

“Ezekiel,” Markus spoke, directing Ezekiel’s attention back to his serious silver eyes, “do take my advice, please. Do not mention your friend Bjorn to Saorise, or any other vampire for that matter. You have already stirred up quite a stew with your confrontation earlier, and believe me when I say that you are safer never bringing him up again. If Saorise or anyone else asks, you must play it off as if Bjorn is just a simple human information broker living in New York.”

 

He blinked, startled. He asked, voice soft, “There’s no way… Bjorn can’t be related to that story, right?”

 

“Perhaps, perhaps not. Remember that there can be many perspectives, however know that many vampires only see one perspective, and it’s a rather black-and-white one at that. Ezekiel, please promise me that you will take my advice to heart; your unlife quite literally depends on it.”

 

Meeting Markus’s eyes, even more serious than it had been the first night when Markus advised him to not trust anyone, Ezekiel nodded, the movement slow and small.

 

For once, his unlife seemed more interesting, but at what cost if his unlife was a risk?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Footnotes:  
> 1 - Mx. is a non-binary title similar to Mr. and Ms.


End file.
